I am spoiled.
My morning, as often as not, starts with the arrival of a freshly brewed cup of coffee inches away from my face.
Some mornings, I wander into the kitchen before it's time to depress the plunger on the press, but other mornings, El Bandito delivers my coffee to me.
And he makes damn fine coffee.
I love my morning coffee. Not just for the welcome caffeine (although I can do without).
For the ritual, and the comfort of wrapping my hands around the hot mug.
For the love it represents when it shows up on my nightstand.
For the taste. As a child, I despised the taste of coffee while loving the smell. Sometime in my teen years, that changed.
I love the random cup of coffee with a friend in an afternoon. There's something about drinking a cup of hot coffee that slows down the rhythm of the conversation.
But today, I am grateful for that morning coffee delivery.
*image lifted from somewhere on the internet. thanks, anonymous internet image search.